


Second Flush

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character growth through sexual exploration, Lovers to GOOD lovers, M/M, Sex without shame, mature desire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 08:45:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6976114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is, in an odd sense, a companion piece to "The Cat in the Box." Each deals with a partner asking for help finding a sexual fantasy experience they can't manage on their own, and don't entirely understand.</p><p>That said, this one is simply not as overt and graphic as "Cat in the Box." Different issues, different arches of development, different desires. </p><p>This also grew out of my recent consideration of what triggers desire.</p><p>The title is because this is a Mycroft technically already well and truly "deflowered," who's enjoying a second bloom--a chance to explore desire as an innocent with his lovely love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Flush

“No, love. You have to tell me what you want. I’m sorry—but I’m not a Holmes. I can’t guess from three stray hairs and the color of your handsome jammies.” Lestrade pulled Mycroft close, nudging his nose into the sleek, cool cotton of Mycroft’s pajama top in a friendly manner that almost teased a smile out of his partner.  Almost—Mycroft still shrunk in on himself with discomfort.

It fascinated Lestrade. His lover was so strong, and calm, and bold in so many circumstances, but in personal interactions he could be the biggest quivering jellyfish. All that courage fled, leaving a shivering, uncertain blob of primordial ooze.

Determined ooze, though. Mycroft forced himself to take a slow breath and try again.

“It’s—there’s not a ‘scene’ to run, exactly. And I’d rather not have to safeword in the first place. But I can’t do it on my own, except just a bit. Like catching sight of a proof for a very nasty bit of mathematical conjecture—only to have it pull loose at the last second. I can almost get it.”

“Yes—this much I followed. It’s the rest…I know you’d like help, but with what? Can you at least give me a shopping list of props and toys, and I can guess from that?”

Mycroft flumped into the bed, making faces. “Wrong end of the problem. If I knew that much I could tell you. It’s all about what I don’t know, sweetie. It’s like the difference between stepping into the lift at work and stepping into the Tardis. In the first instance I know it will let me off at third-floor reception and I’ll have to change lifts up to the secured access floors. In the second, I could go anywhere—and once I’m there, anything could happen.”

Lestrade flopped down next to Mycroft, chuckling as he wrapped his arms around him. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you get me hooked on that old warhorse of a show.”

“Of course I should have. It provides an infinity of useful metaphors. And you must admit, you’ve found every one of the New Who Doctors attractive.”

“I like brainy men,” Lestrade said, tartly, and gave him a squeeze. “Case in point…”

Mycroft permitted himself a satisfied smile, then fell back into gloom. “Yes. But you see, so much of ethical behavior is put at risk when you can’t ‘tell all.’ Or, in my case, even determine what ‘all’ ought to be. It’s not kosher to say, ‘surprise me’ when it comes to the more exotic stuff, after all. Or at least offer a mission statement.”

Lestrade pulled and turned his limp, fretful lover in against him, until he could rest his chin on Mycroft’s skull. He thought, trying to work out what he’d sorted from the past half-hour—and from years of prior association, as friend, work-mate, and lover.

“Ok, first thing I want to check. If I have this right, you want to just give up control to me, yeah?”

Hmmm. Just the shiver of excitement and the twitch of the cock lying against Lestrade’s thigh suggested he’d got that right.

It was more work for Lestrade—but it was not as though Mycroft never carried his end of their partnership. And it was intriguing.

“You want to be tied up? Hung up?  The Good Monsieur de Sade?”

Mycroft shrugged. “You know me better than I do—at least, if anyone does. I want…” His voice yet again faded as he grasped desperately for words to express himself. “That feeling. You know? When you are out of control at last…no idea what comes next. No idea how…” he paused, and Lestrade heard excitement, fear, and shame mix in his voice when he forced himself to continue. “NO idea how it goes next, or what you’ll do, or what you’ll beg for.”

Lestrade forced himself not to laugh. Even in bed, Mycroft Holmes did not beg—well. Not exactly. Yes, there were some “Oh, God, Greg, more, please!” statements made with convincing ardor. But never voiced in helplessness, or a spirit of him being reduced to true begging. Nor did he seem to need to force similar begging from Lestrade.

“Not sure I do follow you, love. I mean, I can see it as a scene, if you wanted to play a scene. But you don’t seem to think it’s a scene.”

“It’s not a scene, it’s an improv,” Mycroft snapped, and then shrunk in on himself. “Sorry.”

Again there was a difference between Mycroft in his authoritarian power mode, and Mycroft the private man: Mycroft the imperious did not apologize or explain. Indeed, when he most should have done so, he instead demanded explanations and apologies from others. In the privacy of his own home, inside his own relationship, though, he was a classic shy English intellectual, and was quick to apologize.

Lestrade cuddled his lover close, and pondered that dichotomy.

“Got to think about this, love. Not ignoring you—thinking. Right? Remember I’m not a Holmes and sometimes it takes me a bit?”

“I am a Holmes, and can tell you that even we Holmeses are known to take forever figuring out the difficult cases.”

Lestrade turned his face down, and nosed in the thinning ginger hair, a smile hidden where Mycroft could not see it. He loved the secret aspects of his beloved: the humor so few people noted, the wry irony, the understanding of his own limits and mortality. It wasn’t that the Godlike Mycroft was not real, but that the vast and authoritarian power existed in perfect harmony with a quiet fellow who looked forward to watching the latest series of _Vicious_ with boyish glee and who could tell you far too much about how to maintain cold-water aquaria—the sort of gnomish fellow whom more studly men thought of as experiencing the world at one remove, through their goggly glasses and online research. One was the lord of the board room—the other the voyeur of the CCTV. The first was known to have adventures—the second to observe adventures.

Oh.

Lestrade smiled, and nuzzled his way to Mycroft’s ear. “Want to be taken out of yourself a bit, don’t you love?”

Mycroft didn’t answer, but shivered again.

“Improv—only you’re the character, not the actor, right? Actor makes the choices and shapes the improv. Character scrambles and tries to cope with what gets thrown at him, and hasn’t a clue.”

Lestrade let himself get a bit handsy, then, intentionally pushing a bit harder than he normally would against his lover’s personal boundaries. “Want to be taken out of the command seat, and not the way they usually mean when they chat up BDSM and the like. Or…” he frowned, because he thought perhaps it was like that after all—but without necessarily needing all the weighted symbols. Or….

“I think maybe I can do it,” he said, as Mycroft squirmed both into and away from the assault of his teasing hands. “I’ll work on it. But we’ll have to lay out a few rules. Safe word, for example?”

“’Sherlock.’ Always.” It was an old joke between them—though they had explored very few BDSM scenarios, and failed to enjoy them all that much, they both appreciated the value of safe practice, and both were amused that really, there could be no more effective safe word for them. They shared it between them.

“Anything you know you’d like? Wouldn’t like?”

Mycroft pulled away, then, and sat up in bed, back to Lestrade. His voice was soft, and Lestrade had to listen closely.

“Not—it’s not anything in particular, Greg. It’s a feeling—and I’m not good with feelings.” He paused, gathered his thoughts, and said, “I keep trying to catch it when we make love, and it’s almost there. That feeling…when I first knew you weren’t just looking at me, but were looking at me as someone you wanted to have sex with. It was like I could feel my body radiating a heat signature anyone could see, as though every erotic zone glowed in the dark—for you, and possibly for anyone with strong observational skills. As though everything I did or said was snatched away from me and turned into part of a dialog that might lead us to bed, or might lead to me trying frantically to get your attention back. It’s like being on a mission, a bit, knowing you may have enemies watching, knowing that anything might give you away. But it’s different, too. I never wanted to beg my opposite player to spot me in a crowd, approach me, touch me, take me.” His voice was rough and uncertain. “It was like living a porn movie and watching it at the same time—and wondering who else was watching, and what they could see if they wanted. So vulnerable. I felt so naked…”

It took Greg a few seconds to even begin to think of a comment to make. The image of his lover so shaken, so aware, so vulnerable to his gaze shook him. To see the porn at the same time you were the porn, to wonder what ways that made you vulnerable to your lover and to anyone else who could see.

He could see ideas to play with, there. Elements he could turn into an “improv,” or a sex game. Many ideas, in fact. It would never be about convincing Mycroft even a bit that he was in danger, or using extremes to “break” him. It would be finding ways to invite him into the creation of intense little pornographic poems—burning, crammed with feeling, crammed with too much revelation. Like turning a Rumi poem into a sex act between true lovers—too real to be a “scene,” too much a matter of art to be “normal sex.”

“I may be able to do something. May I have your permission to play mind-games a bit? Use classic stunts to throw you out of your norms and expectations?”

Mycroft twisted around, swiveling on his hips. His torso was so long, his waist so limber—he was beautiful; a dappled giraffe who graced Lestrade’s nights before loping off, long and leggy, come morning. His eyes glowed as he nodded. “Oh! Yes. Of course. I thought that was so obvious it could be assumed.”

“Mmm. And—it may take awhile? And I may run a few…experiments…along the way?”

Mycroft chuckled, caught off guard. “Rather like Sherlock determining causes and effects?”

Greg, already thinking of a few things it had never occurred to him he did not know about his partner’s hot-wiring, laughed a bit breathily. “Yeah. You could say that. So—experiments. And nosy questions, too. I’m…detecting.”

Mycroft gave a breathy, nervous titter. “Detecting me? Shall I feel under the microscope?”

Greg was not slow to catch a clue when it was handed to him so directly. He smiled as dark a smile as he could manage. “Mmmmmmaybe. Let’s just say you may feel…surveilled. As in ‘surveillance.’ A bit of turnaround for all those years of CCTV cameras and reports on personal associates you pull out of thin air when you want to take something up with Sherlock or one of the rest of us.”

Mycroft’s eyes flared. “Cameras? Um…you will be quite careful with any shots or video footage you may require?”

Greg felt something deep and profound stir in his gut. That didn’t sound in the least like a “no” on dirty pictures and espionage on his own partner. Indeed, it sounded like the idea…intrigued Mycroft. In a good way.

Mycroft—the man who was always either performing the role of dominator of the British government—or who was not seen at all. Either way, a man used to being unseen and undetected.

Even by his own family. His most intimate associates mistook Mycroft for characters who had nothing to do with him.

A man who saw—but went unseen. Observed precisely—but was not observed in return.

Greg gave a sudden cough as a horrible idea came to mind.

“Mike?”

“Yes?”

“Um—Moriarty. And Irene Adler. And even Magnussen… They paid attention, didn’t they?”

The sudden flush on Mycroft’s cheeks gave it away in a second. But he forced himself to answer. “Yes. And, yes—you’re right. While the professional me found it most annoying, the private me occasionally found it erotic. Not appealing, exactly—of the three only Ms. Adler would have been remotely interested in pursuing ‘what I like.’ But still—they were all three attentive enough to have a chance of deducing what I like, and they saw…me.”

“Uh-huh.” Greg considered, smiling to himself. Now he knew one more reason his partner cherished him—one of the few who looked at him and saw a person, not a human cypher.

“Mike? I may have to pull some unexpected strings to put you where you want to be. Safeword if you have to—and remember why I asked for permission, yeah?”

Mycroft nodded, eyes veiled.

Greg wondered if he was afraid.

Greg suspected that in a good sense, he should be…because Greg intended to make a study of how to take Mycroft Holmes apart.

 

oOo

Mycroft Holmes was a rarity. He was among the few people with the intelligence, skill, and awareness to logic out what his lover would learn and conclude, and to guess what sorts of observations, experiments, explorations, and events were likely to occur on the way to attempting some satisfactory climax. He was also, though, among the few men with the calm self-discipline to refuse to do anything of the sort. Unlike Sherlock he did not “delete” information, but he could set it so far outside conscious thought that it might as well have been deleted. He had learned the skill as a young child, when he’d realized to his dismay at about three that he could, if he wished, not only logically locate the places his parents hid presents—thus ruining the surprise experienced on Christmas morning—but that he did not even have to locate the presents—many could be deduced through careful thought and consideration.

Even at three he was a stubborn, disciplined personality. Having found one present, and deduced a second, he forced the entire subject out of his mind, created a cap over his discoveries so complete as to nearly qualify as “deletion,” and he added a layer of subconscious care that he never accidentally discover hiding places.

It was good training for his later profession, in which it can be as important to not-know an enormous amount of information as it is to actually know it. Mycroft later thought of it as “anti-knowledge,” or the fine art of failing to detect what was best left undetected.

He didn’t make himself ignore the fact that Greg was detecting. He couldn’t quite bear to. The thought sent prickles of goosebumps up his spine and occasionally set his breath into wobbly hitches. Just admitting it was happening was an erotic thrill. He did, however, ensure as much as possible that he would not screw up the effort through his own genius interfering. He refused to sabotage himself that way.

As a result he got an extra level of pleasure as Greg moved, quietly, efficiently, and slowly at his task.

Sherlock had always proclaimed Greg a bit of a plodder. In the sense of being less than brilliant, the insult was not entirely true. In the sense that Greg was not a fast detective, there was more justice to the taunt. Greg was thorough, systematic, cautious, pragmatic, and he would not be rushed. It made it easy for Mycroft, busy as always, to lose track of his lover’s project—and for the project to then ambush him unawares, tossing fistfuls of emotional confetti into Mycroft’s usually confetti-free days. Such as the morning Greg asked, quietly over breakfast, “Do you like dirty talk? Insults? Humiliation? In your fantasies and your porn, that is. I know you’d deck me if I called you a slut or a cock-sucker in the ordinary way of things.”

He managed to ask the question with a deliberation that removed all obvious salacious innuendo from the words.

Mycroft, shaken to hear those words in any case, was forced to ask himself, carefully, what he felt about words.

“I may have to answer that later,” he said, reluctantly, after sipping an entire cup of tea. “I’m not sure I know the correct answer. Part of me says that I quite detest insults. But—I will confess that there are certain fantasies and situations that are enhanced by a bit of insult and humiliation. Until I am sure why, I am unable to give you a clear response.”

Greg frowned, eyes unfocused. “May just be better to add that to my experiments list. But—yeah. If you can figure out any broad rules for and against, it might help.”

“Of course, dear. Happy to be of service. Busy day planned?”

Greg smiled. “Retired these days, love. They’re always busy, now. I fill ‘em up with what I want to do, and they never seem to empty out at all.” Then he gave a dark, sensuous, appealing smile. “Today, for example, I intend to think about you, later tonight—naked on the bed. You’ll look good on that burgundy duvet. I may even ask to take pictures.”

Mycroft barely managed to put his teacup down securely, before rising and putting on his jacket and grabbing his umbrella and briefcase. “You’re an evil man, Gregory Lestrade-Holmes. Evil. But you were aware of that already.”

“’Course I was,” Greg said, grinning back. He poured himself a new cup of tea. “Gonna see if I’m the next Mapplethorpe.”

“You may be—but I am not likely to pass as the next Mapplethorpe-quality model. Which is as well—it would quite finish me with MI6.”

“No worries. I intend my gallery to be entirely private…though much studied.” The glitter in Greg’s eyes was in no way assumed. Mycroft, not sure if he was gratified or embarrassed, made a mental note that his partner seemed quite pleased at the idea of creating erotic images with Mycroft as the star.

It was not entirely justified—but it was, he had to admit, flattering.

And exciting.

Embarrassing, too. But, oh. Greg wanted to take dirty pictures of him and enjoy them later! What a thought!

Mycroft was a mess the whole day. Well—no, he wasn’t. He was Mycroft, and if anything the sexual tempest racing through his mind all day only appeared to improve his outer calm and precision. Still, it wasn’t entirely soothing. All day long a little voice whispered, “He wants to take lovely, filthy pictures of me! He wants to enjoy taking them, and he wants me to enjoy posing for them, and he wants to look at them later!” He knew Greg would be careful. His partner was exceptional—spy, policeman, detective, investigator, and in all that a man of honor—a good man. His Greg wouldn’t shame him by putting the pictures up on the internet, or selling them to an enemy in the government, nor would he shame what they had by threatening blackmail with the material if they ever broke up.

Though even the faint, jittery hint of such dangers added an element of thrill. He was safe from such threats, but only because Gregory was a good man, not because posing for dirty pictures was a safe pastime. He was vulnerable to Greg—and safe only because Greg was better than the many lesser men out there.

He was embarrassed. He, Mycroft Holmes, was excited to get away with tawdry, cheap sexual play—thrilled to take risks—excited at laying himself bare in so many ways to this one man.

For Greg Lestrade-Holmes he was willing to play the cheap little tart.

And, yes. He made a mental note—sometimes he liked dirty words. Sometimes he wanted to be Greg’s bitch.

He wasn’t sure why…he had never considered he wanted to be anyone’s “bitch.” He wanted to be Greg’s cock-slut, though. Sometimes.

Only Greg’s. Who else would he ever feel safe with?

He went home that night randy as a billy-goat in spring time. He posed, feeling everything stir and shift—his cock twitched with excitement, then filled, rose, stood tall for Lestrade’s camera, dripped a single shining bead of pre-cum without Mycroft having yet been touched.

Mycroft found his lover adored his long thighs—the stretch of them, the curve of the muscles. He loved his feet, too—long as those of a medieval saint on a cathedral, with elegant, expressive toes. He posed Mycroft in a complicated twist that brought out something to do with waist and back and gut, with nipple and chest and shoulder. Seconds after taking it he was downloading the image to the computer to show his lover—and even Mycroft could see something sensual and oceanic in the twist and curve and turn, with all things coming together where Mycroft’s hand rested in lazy relaxation, wrist draping over waist and fingers curving lazily downward.

By the time they fucked, Mycroft was in a different world—an alternate world where his noisy, commenting mind strengthened his arousal rather than detracting from it. His mind cast up images all night, and he never for a second doubted his lover saw him, and wanted him. He fell, weary, far later than usual, after more orgasms than he expected at that age. In the morning he was nearly silent, not from unhappiness but from a sort of blazing contentment that ate up every spare neuron in his brain.

There was another day Lestrade came to meet him at work. They were to go out for lunch. But Lestrade had brought a bag—a bag full of soft, silken Israeli hummus and slippery, satin baba ganoush and strained yogurt thick enough to hold a spoon upright and cups of frozen raspberry sorbet and glasses of iced mint tea… Greg bummed the door of Mycroft’s office shut and reached back to lock it, then spread the wealth over Mycroft’s desk. Then pattered to the hidden little room of the office, where there was a cot and a little lavatory with a shower, where Mycroft stayed during “danger nights,” when the fate of the world hung in the balance. He took a sheet from the drawer under the bed, and came out and spread it on the floor with a sharp crack, grinning as he did so.

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. “Foreseeing a bit of a mess?”

“Planning on one.” Lestrade stood and came close, hands hovering wide at Mycroft’s elbows. “Mind—it’s just, you’re a bit overdressed for the sort of meal I had in mind.”

Both brows rose high. Sotto voce, Mycroft said, “Anthea’s barely a sound-resistant door away. And I’ve had reason to learn it’s not as sound resistant as one might hope.”

“Then you’ll have to be very quiet, won’t you?”

Mycroft shivered at the thought of it days—weeks—a lifetime later. It was a moment worthy of an entire room of a Mind Palace. Licking his lips, nervous, he opened his own arms and muttered, “Do as you will, my dear.”

The next hour disappeared in fractal images—to many, it seemed, to fit in the time allotted. Buttons flipping out of button holes. Hands dancing to remove trousers. Fingers painting elaborate arabesques on skin—hummus and baba gannoush and yogurt and more Mycroft hadn’t yet seen. Food was dabbed away with scraps of soft bread—and cleaned further with the tickling, wicked touch of a warm, precise tongue.

All in silence, for fear too loud a gasp lead to a moan, and a moan lead to a shout.

Later:

“I’ll have to remember that baba gannoush covers the flavor of jizz fairly nicely.”

“Greg!  Language!”

“Oh, hesh, Mike.” Greg stretched out beside his lover and smiled, tracing a mirrored smile on the younger man’s face. “Enjoyed it all didn’t you?”

“Yes—though yogurt is as nasty with jizz as the baba gannoush was good.”

Mycroft would remember as long as memory prevailed what it felt like to lie naked in his own office, hoping he’d cleared all the bugs and cameras the week before during the monthly housekeeping. Knowing what it felt like to trust himself to warm arms, laughing eyes.

“Liked the little bit of risk, didn’t you?” Lestrade asked, voice warm—but with a note of clinical analysis.

Another man might have been offended. Mycroft’s body sang with the delight of being deduced—seen. Observed. Known.

“Yes,” he husked. “More than I would have expected. I’d start to fall into comfort—and then wonder if Anthea knew—no. She does know in theory. The question is how much actually made it through the door in fact.”

“She’s tactful, and she knows who her friends are. You may never know how much she heard.”

Mycroft thought he might stay silent—instead he gave witness. “That’s exciting too…”

He had not know that little streak of exhibitionism was part of his makeup. Now he knew, he realized he’d like to explore that again. Safely, please God—but again. It was amazing how powerful the notion of one thin door between bliss and humiliation could be.

oOo

Greg pulled the picture together in his mind, a data point at a time, building the portrait of his lover’s inner desires. It was odd: he had thought he learned his prior lovers well. Only this painstaking effort to understand the exact nature of what Mike himself could not express taught him how shallow his understanding of earlier partners had been—how little he had bothered so long as both he and his other lovers climaxed regularly.

This, what he was doing for Mycroft, was different. It was a portrait of the inner workings of a shy, quiet man’s desires—desires so nuanced, so delicate that words barely served to address them. He was not in the ordinary sense an exhibitionist, or a masochist, nor a dozen other things—and yet, elements of dozens of scenes and styles of kink appealed to him, if presented with care and attention.

There was the day Lestrade woke his lover with carefully gauged kisses, not so much as to demand anything, but enough to wake him to the dark sense of lust in the air. When blue eyes fluttered open, Greg whispered, “Want to try something, love. For the project. An experiment. Nothing big—but it’s not going to slip your mind today. Interested?”

Mycroft being Mycroft, he took the time to think, assessing his work load, assessing his control, assessing his desire. He smiled—an interested, happy smile that raised Greg’s spirits in ways he could not easily say…beyond knowing that if he’d been doing this badly in the weeks previous, Mike would not have been so welcoming.

“Tell. If it won’t work, I promise I’ll say so. Otherwise…” The sharp, laughing edge of excitement danced in his voice.

Greg nodded and drew out a small anal plug with a chubby profile and a neck designed to lodge firmly—but naturally. “Shouldn’t hurt. Tried the same model myself the other day to be sure. If it does hurt—take it out. But otherwise—take your morning shower, get ready for the day, and I’ll put it in before you slip into pants and trou. Get home on time and I’ll take it out after dinner.”

Greg’s blood had raced at the look of fascinated interest in Mycroft’s expression. Yes—he knew that the chunky, soft neck and the swollen bulb of the plug would never let him forget all day long he had a lover waiting at home. Like the time they’d picnicked on Mycroft’s office floor with Anthea only a door’s width away, it would intrude on Mike’s real work—just enough. It would feel too close to revelation, even if both Mike and Greg were confident that there was no reason anyone would ever know but them.

Slipping the thing into his lover was the most intimate act Greg thought he’d ever performed—more intimate than penetration—more intimate than giving a blow job. He was fixing Mike’s attention on their love-play for an entire day—and Mike was letting him.

“Here—lean over my knees, like I was going to spank you.”

The words hung between them, Mike blushing crimson.

“You think you might like to be spanked someday?” Greg dared ask.

A shrug. A nod. A glance away. It told far more than silence ought to say. Mycroft seemed to quiver like a rung tuning fork.Then he leaned down, draped himself over Greg’s lap. Greg used the tube of lube, and his fingers to ease the passage and open Mike up. Then he slid in the plug, pushing till it was secure and comfortable.

“That good?”

Mycroft gave a shuddering gasp, and nodded.

Greg, unable to resist, cupped one buttock cheek in the curve of his palm, tracing the crease where thight met bum with one tickling, dragging pinkie finger.

“We’ll try spanking sometime, then,” he said, gripping firmly, stroking, tickling again. He helped his lover stand. Helped put on pants and trousers. Helped with everything, until Mycroft Holmes, The British Government, stood in front of the mirror, neat and clean and showing no sign that Mike the Lover was also there at the same time, with his lover’s love token up his arse. Only they two saw both men—equal and yet unalike.

Greg cupped an arse cheek again, and husked, “I love you, Mike Holmes.”

Mike’s mouth tightened, but his eyes were wide and black-hearted with desire.

Greg was building the portrait he needed for other events. He was beginning to understand.

It was at heart about being seen—revealed, disclosed, stripped of disguises, forced into day light. Mike was a private man; reserved and shy. Somewhere in all that, sex, to him—erotica to him—was to be forced into view, caught in mid-intimacy. Without that little push of being made aware of his own reactions—of knowing his lover was aware of his reactions—he could have his sex and ignore it, too—climax without ever quite feeling at risk. The trick was to give him both safety and a feeling of being stripped and seen. Safe enough to actually risk sex, rather than just closing down. Dangerous enough, vulnerable enough, honest enough to keep him aware of what he was doing and how his lover witnessed it.

A bit at a time Greg was coming up with dozens of little tricks to keep his lover alert and in the moment—alert and vulnerable.

In other hands, Greg thought, this could have been so crass. Even if Mycroft could have stood it, it would have been a permanent humiliation for him—a constant proof that his real self was sick and coarse and vulgar. Greg thought instead, with luck, Mike might ultimately realize he was delicate and vivid and sensual as an orchid in bloom, his mind a whorl of gently swirled desires meshing like petals at the heart of the blossom.

oOo

“Mike—about that project. You do know it may never really end? It’s got potential to go our whlle lives.”

Mycroft, more aware of his own needs after months of exploration, gave an amused hum of agreement. “It does rather seem like it might. Larger in scope than I first imagined, I’m afraid. Still interested? You can opt out if you like. You’ve been heroic in your efforts so far.”

“No—never opt out.” Lestrade rolled closer in bed, and kissed Mycroft’s shoulder, tonguing the thin cotton of the pajama top to near transparency, then blowing softly to chill the fabric down. “Just—it’s never going to really resolve into one big event. More like a lifetime of little events with a few bigger ones to celebrate, yeah? Make sense?”

“Perfect,” Mycroft admitted. “And quite lovely just as it is.”

“You have liked it so far?”

“Loved it.”

“Good.”

They curled together awhile. Then Greg said, softly, “Today…Anthea says you’ve got a light schedule. She’s cleared your afternoon and evening. Is that all right with you?”

“Yes.” There was a note of excited tension in Mycroft’s voice. He let his legs fall open, but curled his upper body in toward Greg’s, listening closely, breath already shifting in speed and interest.

Greg allowed his hand to slid up Mike’s nearest thigh, up—and then back. He stroked.

Mike would not have offered this months before. Greg had occasionally explored—and been welcomed, certainly. But it had not been a part of his or Mike’s shared language of desire. It had been too intrusive for Greg to feel polite and too open a sign of need for Mike to dare offer it. They were past that, now. Each understood better the things they liked—and why they liked them.

Greg knew the thrill it gave him to be given so much power. It was a little disturbing—but true. He felt like a king, an emperor when he could trigger this kind of open longing in his partner—this open invitation to take without asking. And Mike loved the sense of naked vulnerability coupled with trust—and at the same time the squirming knowledge that, yes…sometimes he was Greg’s willing, longing slut. He “wanted it.” He was gagging for it.

It was humiliating—and he wasn’t sure he could have stood it with any other partner. With Greg, though, he was safe, and his courage was rewarded with a generous blend of use and restraint.

They whispered together, planning out the afternoon. It wasn’t a scene—it was, as once stipulated, an “improv.”

“You don’t mind kneeling to wait for me?”

Mike shivered. “No. It’s exciting. You’ll want to touch me when you get in from the case with Sherlock?”

“Don’t know. Depends on if it’s a bugger of a day. May need a beer and a chance to relax a bit. May need a hot cuppa.” Greg chuckled. “May just need my hot husband waiting for me in next to nothing, knees wide for me. Yeah?”

“Mmm.”

“I’ll leave a box of toys for you. Play with what you like.”

“I’ll smell rather hot and sweaty by the time you’re home if I do.”

Greg gave the little, choking gasp Mike knew meant he’d hit a nerve and left his husband in hot need. He smiled.

“You intend to have some toys of your own set aside to explore with later?”

“’Course I will,” Greg affirmed, grinning. He drew his husband close, and kissed his eyes. “I’m a lucky man, Mike.”

“Yes, I do think you are,” Mike teased back, smiling.

They made love, then—quick, hot, bent-over-the-bed love, making sure both men would run into work late. Only a shared shower kept them from running into work late and smelling like a bordello.

It was like an orgasm humming in the background of his life, Mike thought later, as the morning played out. He could think and work—but the anticipation hung heavy, marking the time with a glaze of sweet expectation. He hurried home, mind already on his assignment. It would have been embarrassing once. Now it was thrilling and comforting. Shower. Enema. Play with one of his toys. Put on the little translucent robe with nothing to hold it closed but a slippery sash. Kneel in sight of the door, waiting for his lover to arrive. Planning out what he wanted, as well as imagining what Greg might want.

When he got home the little box of toys was out…and the house cameras were all running. He was too much a spy not to check, but quickly determined that they were on a closed link with no access to outside observers.

He prepared. His heart was skittering along, thrilled, excited. Every erogenous zone felt like it glowed—like it could be seen for miles, like a lighthouse at midnight on a moonless night. He could imagine Greg’s hands on his nipples, pulling and pinching. He could imagine himself making sounds he would not once have permitted himself, the better to underline his reaction to Greg’s efforts. He was bombarded with the possibilities, awash with ideas of things they had done before—and not yet dared.

Soon he knelt on a soft, thick pillow, knees separated well, hands on his thighs, body buzzing with cleanliness, “warming lotions,” and desire. He dropped into a nice zen state learned decades before for other things. It served him well, though, allowing him to drift, waiting, excited but not yet aroused, patiently enjoying the anticipation. He touched his groin, and felt his cock stir and shift like a lazy cat rolling in a puddle of sun on a wood porch. He drew his hand away, but imagined Greg’s remaining, touching, tracing.

It was a very happy cat on a porch. It stretched out long…

He waited, ready but not rushed.

Then feet approached the door of the flat. There was the sound of a key-card being swiped. And Greg was there…

They looked at each other, and the moment caught fire. Greg kicked the door shut with his heel, dropped to his knees, and pulled off his overcoat. He ran his hands up, one inside either thigh. “Hi, honey. I’m home.”

Mike leaned back, pushing his thighs wider, knowing that this was going to be another of those perfect, memorable moments. He smiled into Greg’s eyes, and allowed himself the game and pleasure of begging. “Oh, God, Greg. Fuck me…” He let the day’s longing seep into his voice, allowed himself to display the need…and reveled when Greg drew him close, already stripping away the translucent robe and searching to find the hidden toy that hummed to life at his first touch.

It wasn’t what they did, Mike thought, as they staggered for the bedroom. It wasn’t any given trope, or trick, or kink. It was the trust—and the seeing.

And then he thought very little more that wasn’t a matter of touch and taste and trace and bend and sigh.

 


End file.
